


Blood Loss

by DOEYES



Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Blood, Mild Smut, Vampire Bites, two traumatized fools who can't cope
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:53:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27197422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DOEYES/pseuds/DOEYES
Summary: "Her pulse rang out in her own ears, then his and soon she could not tell the difference between either. As if they were the same and had always been."
Relationships: Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 115





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy! Just so you know the character here is a half drow warlock in an eldritch pact. It's not super important, but it's mentioned like once or twice.

The bruise on her neck and bloomed into a ripe plumb. The once bright red puncture wounds had faded to a dull, scabbed over burgundy. Without the adrenaline, it was a dull ache beneath her skin. When her lilac fingers lightly prodded at the skin it throbbed weakly. Even when tinted yellow with the dim candle light it looked an ugly wound. Once the sessions had become nightly hiding them had become routine. After each, she returned with a new knick. Until now they dotted their way down her forearms. But that one, the first one upon her neck, stubbornly refused to heal.

For the past few days she had let her dark curls fall around it and pulled up her hood. Much to her delight the others hard said nothing since that night by the campfire. Although once she had seen that it caught Shadowheart’s eye, who’s face contorted in morbid disgust. But as soon as she turned to face her it was gone as if she’d dreamed the expression upon it. But now when the hair hung loose around her neck the bruise still showed through. She’d woken with the moon still in the sky. These days she hardly slept at all. Being awake held off the thing that waded in her dreams. Whatever that was she knew she did not want to go back to it.

And then there was the problem of Astarion. The unsolvable riddle. She looked at him, the dim light of the fire coloring him with a faint orange glow. Eyes closed upon the bedroll. Here but somewhere far away.

Her hands nursed the bruise again and she remembered what it was like to receive it. Remembered the way he held her until she’d gone slack and lifeless in his arms. She recalled the thick beckoning blackness, the void she fell into. He had been looking to drown the sorrow in drink, it was obvious. Now, of course, the damned thing would not heal.

“Still awake?”

When the voice came through the night she flinched for a moment. Though she knew he was awake she did not think he’d turn his gaze on her. It was still unexpected. For a moment she was caught in mid breath, before settling beneath it. As if beneath a microscope.

He was so fickle with his attention. At first, she reached out for him, offering kind words, but he swatted her hand away. She only wanted to heal the wound, the other worm carving its way through his mind. Foolish, you can not nurse away a memory. Not with care, not with kind words, and now not with blood. No, it would cling much harder than the tadpole. She could not save him from the phantom of Cazador, just as she could not save herself. He’d held back from her and suddenly as if a dam had broken it came in a torrent of emotion. He only reached out when she pulled away. Now she’d been caught by the sleeve. She still hadn’t found the rhythm of it. She was unsure if she trusted it. Would she let the tide take her— had it already?

Looking back she shouldn’t have been surprised. She’d seen it behind his scarlet eyes, a needing, a wanting, aching loneliness, and a fear. It was a look she knew from her own reflection. It was always lurking behind her sad, violet eyes. Perhaps he’d seen it in her as she had in him. Had he noticed the way she shied away from touch while craving it? Or how she too withheld herself? Was that the attraction? The mark of a kindred spirit.

“No, I’m sleeping,” She teased, a thin smile forcing itself. Finally, he set her eyes on him. Even with her dark vision, he was no more the pale ghost of an elf in the distance.

When she startled, he only responded in a short boisterous laugh, through the whistle of an evening wind it carried to her ears soft, like the chimes of bells. “Now you decide to be skittish. Don’t you know I can feel you staring? You were what — waiting for me?”

Of course she had been, only a, “Maybe,” betrayed her guilt. “Come closer, I can’t see you.”

He stepped forward into the glow of soft moonlight, then she could see him so clearly. The manicured hair, the shimmering garnet eyes and the way he stood so perfectly still, as if not even breathing. How divine he looked: so pale against the black sky, so well framed under moonlight. If her heart skipped a beat, could he hear it?

“You look so…” Her voice trailed off, mesmerized by the vision.

“Go on, flatter me.”

“Lovely.”

If only she were more of a poet.

One of his hands reached out for her cheek to feel the warmth beneath his hand. Astarion pulled back the locks that hid the unsightly mark on her neck. His face seemed to twist for a moment, brows knitting together, lips pulling together thinly. Then it was gone as soon as it’d come. Must have been a trick of the moonlight.

“It’s getting worse.” She spoke, pulling away from his prodding fingers.

“It gets worse before it gets better. Should be gone in a day or so.” A pause. “Other side?”

There was a now familiar hunger in his eyes. Had she mistaken hunger for empathy? Obedient, she turned her head to the side revealing the other side, where the skin was unbroken.  
A satisfaction reflected in Astarion’s expression. His eyes went from smoldering to aflame with thirst.

“Ah, yes,” He hissed. “Now that is something lovely, indeed.”

Just at the moment when his jaws began to flex open, she pulled away. She wasn’t afraid of the teeth, nor the pain. It was something else; something deeper. She didn’t want to be known, didn’t want him to entangle himself into mind besides the tadpole and the voices. It was all too much, too vulnerable. Too many people inside her head. Somehow she’d become the host of many parasites: the eldritch pact, the tadpole, and now the vampire too. The thought chilled her.

“I can’t.” Her shoulders rose in a painful shrug, irritating the bruise.

Astarion’s face fell, becoming colored with a flurry of emotions suddenly, one after another in a series of small pained expressions. Surprise, hurt, fear and then a steely acceptance.  
“Why the sudden change of heart?”

She toyed with her fingers. Avoiding the warmth of his gaze, it feels like the heat of a spotlight. _Lie,_ she thought, _lie, say anything._ “The pain. Maybe when I’m done recovering.”

A half-truth will do.

“I’ll only take a pinprick this time. Promise you won’t feel a thing.”

At last her gaze turned back to his, there was faint desperation clawing somewhere in his words. The most subtle tremor in his voice when he spoke to her. Still, she shook her head, “No.”  
“Oh, alright then,” He whined. “I’ll just have to hunt for some poor furry little creature in the wilderness. Just like old times. All to my lonesome.”  
Before she was so sure, but ah the way his lip curls out so slightly into a pout. The soft apprehensive tenseness in his face he hid so well. It was a crack, thin as a hair in his collected fasad, a glimpse behind his mask. The fire in his eyes… What a thing it is to be burned by those sanguine eyes.

“No,” She ejected suddenly, barely before a moment to comprehend her own words. “I changed my mind.”

She pushed a thick bunch of curls from the right side of her neck, where the skin was an unblemished canvas of lilac, “Take your fill.”

A smirk edged its way onto Astarion’s waiting mouth, his head tilting to the side. He was collected again, at home in his performance. The eye’s had more the look of searching embers now, alive with light.

“You simply live to tease me. Had you held out a little longer, just maybe you would have gotten me to beg. _If you could possibly be so lucky.”_

Astarion knew how to use firm hands when he wanted to. Effortlessly, he positioned her. Frigid hands grasping her shoulder, pulling her inward. Then he turned her head just so. She tensed, expecting pain, but instead, soft lips brushed the skin against her jaw. She eased, comforted by the unexpected affection. He knew how to be gentle all the same when the time called for it. It lingered a moment longer than expected, long enough for her to drop her defenses. In that moment of weakness, he bore his fangs.

When they pierced her she almost cried out in something between hurt and bliss. It slipped past her lips only for a moment until she bit it back with her teeth. His skin against her back was like being caressed by ice. Pressed against her back she felt him as if he were a statue. Upon feeling the contours of him against her a shudder made its way up her spine. It was a stark white pain. Completely consuming. Despite the blinding pain she only leaned into the beasts eager jaws, offering only more skin for them to travel. Instinctually, her body pressed back against him. One of his hands had eased itself down the collar of her doublet, exposing her chest to the night air. A determined finger was encircling an engorged bulb meticulously. All while she searched fruitlessly amongst fabric to return the favor until finally, her hand found what it sought. For all this, she was only able to respond with half muted hums. She could feel the two of them connected through that lapping tongue, those fangs, the breath on the back of her neck. The rest of the world fell silent and all there was the deepening sound of a slowing pulse that connected the two. Each beat drifting further from them both as they chased it.

Oh, there was a pleasure in it and beyond that the thick blackness. The dark enveloping touch of death, beckoning her to a grave. She had half a mind to let herself fall into it again as she did the first time. Maybe she would. At that moment just as she entered it, a blank space between spaces, her fingers entangled themselves in one of the other’s marble like hands.

Just as she was ready to drift, he relinquished his grasp. She gasped at the suddenness of the release and the cold of the night air against the now slick nape of her neck. Woozy, she almost lost her balance, nearly falling forward before catching herself. She sat there, hands on her knees, hunched over, regaining her bearings.

“You stopped.” She uttered as if he did not know, as if it had been a mistake. “Why did you stop?”

She looked weakly over her shoulder, the pale figure before her was still blurred.

His response was a burst of laughter, “You’d have died, darling and I’m not quite finished with you just yet. Don’t be foolish.”

Her brow fell over her eyes and something foul welled up in her chest. It was a feeling she could not place. It was a nameless, seething thing, anger’s scorned sister. A fire made of acid raging where her heart should be.

A cold thought rang through her mind, a whispering partially smuggled by her hemorrhaging body, You had no problem with that the first time.

A cold hand found itself at her shoulder, steadying her. The sickness subsided.

“I’m fine,” She answered the unasked question that had been hovering in the air all around them but did not need to be said. Forlorn straightened her spine, stretching. The new wound she wore was colored a bright pink, the color of new blood pooling beneath her damaged skin. When she moved it ached, but she could not feel it over everything else. Stifling the discomfort, she offered another weak grin.

There he was behind her, lips tinted red with the color of her vitae. She was still riding on the euphoria. The rapturous high sped her from one movement to the next. In that moment, more than anything they wanted — no needed to feel something, still. She did not want to be left alone black and blue. First, her hand reached out for his white cheek. Second, her lips pushed themselves to his. So desperate, so quick, so needy she had thrust herself upon him so she could practically feel the harsh impression of the fangs against her lips. Could taste her own blood (metallic, faintly sweet, the taste of copper and wine). Maybe she could ease both their hurt between sheets. Even though it hadn’t worked the first time, or the second, or any of the others, there was still hope. Astarion had been slightly taken aback by the sudden onslaught, but he found her rhythm as easily as her pulse. He had no interest in objecting. After all, why would he?  
For a moment it was bliss: hands caressed, lips brushed open skin, some clothes were in the process of being expelled. Unfortunately, the adrenaline that propelled her dissipated in a second. It was as if her legs would fall out from under her.

“Wait — Hells… Damn…” Her body fell against his chest, meekly. Her main focus now attempting to remain on their feet as the sickness returned, vengefully.

Astarion pulled back gently to look at them leaning limply against him, “Are you quite alright?”

“Feels like I’m about to pass out.” she panted, a hand nursing a now pounding head.

“Shit, you weren’t kidding…” He took her by the chin to look up at him, as he examined dazed features. Through the haze, she almost saw his twist painfully, “I thought— No, never mind.”

“I know what you thought. I know.”

A sheet of silence descended, lengthened by her malnourished state. Just as she thought she would never hear the end of the quiet he spoke, “Its blood loss. Food and rest and you’ll be better by morning.” It sounded like a prescription to follow before he released her, and yet he did not tear away. Astarion only stood in a perfect undead stillness.

He sighed, deflating, “I’ll stay with you till sunrise.”

Awkwardly they sat side by side in the grass. Immediately she felt better without clumsy feet to stand on. Annoyance crept up her spine. She’d wanted so badly to, and still wanted…

“Fucking blood loss.” She groaned.

Still breathless, she began rearranging her doublet, maneuvering it with a clumsy, shaky hand.

“You don’t have to do that so soon. I actually quite enjoy simply looking at them.” He teased, as he leaned back, comfortably.

She responded with a wheezing laugh, “Really? I absolutely had no idea.”

The night air was now a constant chill against her damp skin. She could hear the sounds of the world again, the birds singing overhead, the crackle of the fire, insect wings. It all came back slowly piece by piece.

Everything was still moving as if she were underwater. Completely drained, exhausted, sleep deprived, it was finally beginning to catch up to her. She rested her head against his shoulder as dizzily around them, the world span.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was actually super cathartic to write cause I have some trauma surrounding biting and other subject matter in this in general, so thank you for reading! Astarion is really good abuse victim representation, so shoutout to the writers at larion for portraying us in a complex and nuanced fashion.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Astarion reveals his vampiric nature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I simply could not get these two out of my head. Now that my midterms are over I have some free time and can get back to writing again. So, from this point forward consider this a series of nonchronological one shots. I've already started working on a lot of stuff, so more to come. We're starting off with a little scene rewrite and I hope you like it!

The cool breathing on her neck was enough to wake her from her slumber. It sent a chill down her exposed shoulder. She flinched as if rousing from a horrid dream and out of instinct turned to face the cold. It was only then that she’d begun to regain her faculties. As the haze of sleep ebbed and her vision grew clear. The world went from obtuse fuzzy shapes to a somewhat more viewable focus. Before her, the source of the stimuli came into view. And there was that marble stone face, only broken by two red eyes lingering over her own.

Astarion’s pale visage constricted, his eyes growing wide and lips pulled thin.

“Shit,” He hissed, tense lips hardly moving.

Fear surged through her body.A strange man standing had been standing her in the middle of the night. What could he possibly plan? To kill her, to maime her? She decided not to follow through with that line of thinking, it would only lead to further panic. Her first reaction was to scream, but it somewhere between her vocal cords, the sound dies. Forlorn began squirming away in frantic quick movements, jerking backward. Her hand rose to shield herself, readying for a blow or _whatever came next_.

“Stop!” She choked out, voice shrill with panic.

Astarion reeled back. His features shifted upwards, looking pained.

“No, no, it’s not what it looks like.” He rose his pale hands upwards, to assure his harmlessness. Forlorn eyes took him in and now she could see that he carried no blade. He hadn’t planned to run one across her throat. “I wasn’t going to hurt you, I just needed — “ His voice stalled for a moment. A word was teetering on his tongue that he didn’t want to say. “Well, _blood_.”

Her vision now was completely clear, as was her mind. For the first time, she really saw him. How pale he was against the warm glow of the firelight. How she burned under his eyes. And then so crystalline, more than anything perpetual pout in his lips to make room for his protruding canines. _Oh_ —What a fool she had been not to see it, to not even suspect it. His little eccentricities suddenly all fit together into a larger puzzle. They all pointed so obviously to his vampiric nature (except of course his ability to walk in sunlight). She rubbed her eyes, then her temples to soothe a growing pain in her skull.

Of course, she thought bitterly. Of course, it was always her tempting with forces beyond her reach. It was all just like the eldritch entity she’d made a pact with before him. Prey, something to be hunted, poked, prodded. How unsurprising it should be for her to nearly be pinned beneath one yet again. It hurt to fall victim to her own stupidity once more. That was the most painful.

And yet he did not look so dangerous. If he was going to lash out at her, attempt to silence her, he would have done it by now. That didn’t necessarily make her feel better, though. It may have made her even more uneasy. So much for intuition. Now she could not even tell his motivations. She tried to decern it on his stony face but found nothing. Forlorn was still breathing unevenly, nearly hyperventilating.

“How long has it been since you killed someone?” She interrogated as her eyes fixed on him in an unsure glare.

He only looked more wounded, almost alarmed by the accusation, “I’ve never killed anyone. I feed on animals, boar, dear, kobolds - whatever I can get.” Suddenly his brow furrowed, shoulder’s drooping almost pathetically, accentuating his natural pout, “But it’s not enough. Not if I have to fight. I feel so weak.”

For the first time, he was truly emotive. She could see an ember of something under his cold snarky exterior. Maybe her previous comment was uncalled for. After all, it seemed he was a mere vegetarian drooling over the sight of a steak. Nothing more. A moment before he’d seemed so dangerous but now totally harmless. She let out a long low sigh, emptying her chest of some pent up fear. Forlorn was _perhaps_ even moved, perhaps a little. So much time had passed in their travels that it was nice to see a little give, even if it was only a glance. All that time she’d spent trying to lure some humanity out of him might have finally begun showing reward. But then again he was a vampire, how much humanity was there to give?

“If I only had a little blood I could think clearer fight better.” Astarion continued, before locking her in a tight gaze beneath his smoldering eyes. It was like being in a cage. “ _Please_.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” She breathed, only sounding exasperated from the rude awakening. The anger of the prior moment was gone.

Astarion shuffled, looking down at his foot as it uncomfortably wedged itself into the dirt, nervous.

“At best I was sure you’d say no. More likely you’d ram a steak through my ribs.” His eyes turned on her again, slowly he was already drawing near, taking slow, long strides closer. His velvet voice took on a deeper baritone, “No, I need you to trust me. And you can trust me.”

She was still sitting awkwardly on her bedroll staring up at him. Despite knowing she should say no, knowing that he was some undead creature who’s mouth probably tasted of copper, knowing that it would hurt when he would bite into her, damn it, she wanted to trust him. She spoke with confidence, “I trust you.”

“Thank you.” His demeanor warmed, hand pulling inward to rest idly over his heart for a moment. Forlorn found herself wondering if vampires had a pulse. The smile that had grown slowly edged into a smirk, “Do you think you could trust me further?” Closer still, he was once again hovering above her as she had been but a moment ago. He could probably smell her, hear the steady drum of her heartbeat as it rammed against her ribs. “I need only a taste I swear.” Once again she felt the familiar chill of his breath against her skin, but this time welcomed it as if it were a gentle breeze during Summer’s heat.

“Fine.” she agreed, a half-second passed before she began to wonder if he’d be able to stop himself. She remembered the state of the mysterious boar they’d found on the road. Completely drained of its blood. Quickly, she added, “But not one drop more.”

Astarion drew back for a moment in apparent surprise. He slackened and softened once again, looking at her. “Really I—“ But then the moment was gone whatever barrier was between them had risen once again. “Of course. Not one drop more.”

She was expecting him to seize her and bite down as if she were one of the animals he hunted. In preparation, her muscles tensed ever so slightly. Expectantly she stared, waiting for the moment to come. It didn’t, instead she was met with cold guiding hands, that had a gentle touch. Astarion positioned her like he were pinning a butterfly, as if one flinch or application of undue pressure would cause her tear. That lead her to wonder about his strength. Just how much force could he inflict with a single movement? She thought about it with some lurid mix of anxiety and anticipation.

Most unexpectedly, he cradled her against his frigid body. At first, Forlorn assumed he was searching for her pulse or scanning her neck for just the right location to plunge into her jugular. But the touch was lingering far too long for that. It was confusing but pleasant. She could almost ease into it if it weren’t for the context of it all.

Without warning the fangs clasped her waiting vein. The feeling was bitterly cold, like frostbite spreading from his lapping mouth. An immeasurable pain paralyzed her. She was totally frozen, unable to focus on anything but her frostbitten wound.

But slowly it retreated into a soft tingling sensation as the blood left her. As it faded she noticed now that it was no longer so unbearably cold. Her pulse rang out in her own ears, then his and soon she could not tell the difference between either. As if they were the same and had always been. It was the oddest form of intimacy she’d ever experienced. To know Astarion as she’d never known anyone else, to let him know her. She felt things in that moment as he did, felt the hunger gnawing, the tempestuous smell, could nearly taste her own blood in her mouth. Above all that she felt some twisted knot of fear in his chest, but it was too vague and tangled to tell why or what of. Was he afraid he would crush her in his hands? Afraid he would lose himself? Afraid to feel the heat of another body against his own? Something like that, but she couldn’t know for sure. Nevertheless, he’d actually made himself vulnerable.

Her mind was whirling with the blend of sensations and the blood loss. There was no way to compose herself enough not to let out a long sound, a soft, pleading whine. The vice like grip Astarion had on her neck slackened somewhat as he paused, seemingly somewhat perplexed. After a moment he continued, jaw resuming its pressure and tongue dragging across the broken skin. Forlorn still had enough of her faculties to be cognizant of what she’d done. If she were not being drained, certainly her face would have been redder. She couldn’t help but feel embarrassed for having such a perverse reaction to him, but it was so close to a deep kiss. She couldn’t begin to imagine how sick she must have seemed to him once she began writhing under his touch. The shame was palpable. Much to her dismay, the feeling was swelling in her again. She tried to hold back the groan through gritted teeth but was still too audible. A reassuring icy hand pet her head, tangling its fingers in her hair as if to coax more out of her. It took her a moment to even comprehend the gesture. She was still hesitant to let go of the shame, but with the new signal of possible reciprocation she didn’t hold back the next time a moan poured from her lips, louder than the ones before it.

Suddenly Forlorn was pulled closely against him. Astarion repositioned himself, pinning her beneath him with his hand covering her mouth. He seemed to be suckling more desperately now. No longer did Forlorn have to question his feelings either. She could feel his reciprocation pressed against the small of her back. She cried out a muffled exhalation for no one to hear. His free hand traced down her. Once it found one of the protruding buds of her nipples against her nightshirt, his thumb began to trace over in ceaselessly. The sensation caused her to rut against him, her hips rolling back into him. A pleased hum reverberated around her neck. Once tiring of playing with her there he began moving farther, searching her thighs for dampness. His hand stilled as he pondered for a moment, before deciding not to relive her so easily. He pushed himself between her legs, choosing to agonize her by allowing them to feebly grind against each other. He was holding her tighter now, almost quivering with the intensity.

She released a squeak of surprise which was caught in his hand. With how little he reciprocated her attention, it was nice to receive a bit back (and then some). She hadn’t expected him to come around at all, but never in her wildest dreams did she think it would be like this. She’d forgone the thought of even the mildest intimacy, even so much as lingering touches. But now, here he was pressed against her backside. She could feel the outline (longer and much colder than she'd anticipated) of him against her rump seeking friction. A tease, he knew it would not get either of them anywhere close to relief. Little more than an offering, a taste for what was to come.

There was hardly any time to take it all in. Part of her wondered if it was all a very strange dream.

The moans soon faded into quieting whimpers as the once pleasant buzz began to become an empty black hole. Astarion didn’t seem to notice the weakening, though at some point he’d stopped moving, only pulling her inwards savoring only the taste. Forlorn didn’t dislike the growing emptiness, It wanted to envelop her, free her from this world and the tadpole and the rest.

A limp, by now very pale and bloodless hand reached up to grab a handful of Astarion’s silver locks and pull him even farther into her. Egging him on. Heeding her, he somehow dug his fangs in further. Another muffled squeal, half pleasure, half pain. She was beginning to slip away faster and faster but never resisted. It felt good to dip into oblivion, to have life’s weight taken off her shoulders. Suddenly she felt so light as if she were floating. Her breaths were growing more shallow, farther and farther apart. Her fingers which once held tight against his skull had grown even weaker, now only able to toy with the hair lazily between her fingertips.

It became more apparent that he wasn’t going to stop, not that she wanted him to. Astarion was long lost in the taste of her. The full body of its metallic flavors, coppery overtones to it’s sweet, lavender undertones. She could feel him languishing in the glory of his feast, like a glutton. All this for his first time; he must have become as swept away as she did. She had always thought death would be painful, but instead, it was coming trance like and blissful. She didn’t mind, didn’t mind just one bit. She let the feeling swallow her, entering its dark inky abyss.

And then there was nothing at all.

* * *

Yet again she was awaking with a start, once again brought about by the feelings of coldness. Forlorn gasped in desperately needed air, breathing for what felt like the first time. Her eyes opened to a blinding light and a gentle warmth on her cheek. It was daylight, the sun beating down on her. A shadow came to block out the white spotlight over her. The rough outline of Shadowheart stood out against the sun. Her bangs sticking with sweat to her forehead under the heat. The third eye of her circlet staring down at her.

“You wouldn’t wake up.”She stated plainly. “It’s been two hours and the whole time through you wouldn’t wake up.”

She was holding an empty bucket in her hand, which she promptly dropped letting it fall to the ground beside her. It landed with a loud crash a bit uncomfortably close to Forlon’s ear. Shadowheart had dumped a pale of water on her. That explained the chill. Beneath her, the bedroll was soaked through and around it liquid pooled. Her head felt like it was on fire. A migrane hammered behind her eyes and she wondered if it was the blood loss, the tadpole writhing in the pink folds of her grey matter or both. She began to rise uncomfortably slowly, her aching body resistant to movement. She’d never felt so heavy, so bruised.

Upon further surveillance, she noted the party had surrounded her, like an encroaching group of sharks. All, of course, except Astarion who was noticeably absent. Upon seeing that she felt a sting of betrayal in her chest. She refused to let her features show it. He’d left her there. They all looked at her with a warm, perhaps begrudging concern, but she did not want it.

She looked down to find her high collar had been properly fastened. For a moment, she once again wondered if the whole thing had been fantasy. But then the ache began beneath the cloth and she knew. Looking blankly at their faces she realized if they found out, they could descend upon him like wolves. There Forlorn sat, as they stared at her wet on the ground attempting to weigh the fate of their missing companion. Was he even in camp? Maybe he’d fled in the middle of the night to leave her for dead. Or maybe he was an idiot who’s eyes were much bigger than their stomach. How much blood had he taken from her? How Long did it continue until he’d realized he was sitting there limp?

“Why is she not speaking?” Lae'zel tutted.

It appeared Forlorn had run out of time to make up her mind. Now she had to make the decision on nothing more than an emotional whim. She spoke in an awkward string of shuffles as she shambled to her feet, “I’m a very deep sleeper.” Her audience was drastically unamused. Though she refused to of speak anymore. When they attempted to argue, she would simply wave them away with more poor excuses. After years, Forlorn had grown more accustomed to taking things on the chin. Preferring to endure a defeat alone.

She cowered to her tent, pulling open the collar that Astarion had apparently been so careful with. There it was, a red set of puncture wounds. The color was depending; that red was caramelizing into aburgundy. The edges were just beginning to bleed into purple. Speckles of dried copper blood stood out on her skin. When looking at it she winced. Not a pretty sight, by any means. Her fingers reached out to touch it finding the space was still numb. She would have to bandage it, apply gauze and poultices, no less. If it were to get infected — No, she would not think about that. The mere thought made her shudder. For a while she sat there, caring for it with herbal solutions and wrapping the wound. It seemed to bruise over more with every passing second. The ache only grew. And still, that miserable headache throbbed between her ears.

“Ah, yes. A most embarrassing accident on my part.” Astarion’s voice chirped behind her.

Typical rogue. He’d snuck into her room in complete silence. She turned to face the day walker. Who stood grinning with the same mouth that had been clamped on her jugular. Peeking from his pale lips, barely pink, she could see the pure white of his fangs peering from them. Whether out of fear or something else, she could not stop looking at his lips.

“You look,” He began before pausing. “most unwell.”

Her suspicious gaze finally broke into a scowl. He’d slipped through her fingers so quickly. At least he could have come to her with even a modicum of authenticity. Forlorn couldn’t stand speaking not to Astarion, but instead to the distant, deflecting, cocky mask he wore. After knowing him last night, she could now tell the difference with some accuracy.

“You don’t say?” She snapped back, revoking her gaze to look back at the mirror. She looked at herself. Her small round face, and uncomfortably high collar. Her eyes looked so sunken and her skin looked a shade lighter than it usually was. Astarion had drained all the color from it.

He sighed, uncomfortably. An unsure attempt at a smirk was lopsided on his mouth. His brow turned up in a curious glance, “I thought you seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

She stared at him in the mirror, not wanting to speak of it further. It was the last thing she wanted to think about. Besides in comparison to having halved her blood supply and having an open wound, it seemed less important.

“I did. That isn’t the problem.” She shook her head.

True, it wasn’t. It wasn’t so much the act as everything around it. There was no shame in bearing her neck to him. She kept her view turned from him steadily avoiding his figure.

“Do you want me to grovel?” He snorted his soft sympathetic face hardening. Astarion rested his fists and his hips. She could see him looking at her intently, waiting for an answer. After an uneasy silence, it became obvious he would simply remain until she gave him whatever reply he was fishing for.

She turned from the small hand mirror and gave him a stern look, “Actually yes. I would very much like that, Astarion. Go ahead.”

A surge of power seemed to flow through her. Like she’d unlocked a power hidden away. Miraculously, suddenly, she simply knew she could make him. An ability that she’d neglected, perhaps even suppressed. Her eyes pressed him, unwavering.

Astarion froze for a beat, before taking in a very audible breath. Shifting uneasily, he looked at her. “I- Alright then…” He exhaled, a delicate smirk was tucked under his cheek. “I’m terribly, miserably sorry for taking more than I should have. Won’t you forgive me? Pretty please.”

He could not drop the sarcastic inflection from his voice, not completely, but it was an apparent effort. She squinted trying to find another trace of insincerity, but there were none to be found.Suddenly she wasn’t so sure of herself. Whatever magic she’d mustered had dissipated and a sense of creeping anxiety began to churn in her stomach.

“I will consider it.” She settled.

Seething his furrowed brow setting low on his fiery eyes. His upper lip curled into a snarl, “When did you start playing games?” He looked at her, a negative expression that Forlorn couldn't quite place. Was it disgust? She pondered it for a moment. He was so very good at hiding his feelings, making it difficult for her. No, she realized, it was defeat on his face. Forlorn had returned to nursing her still sore head in her hands. The same way she’d been before he’d entered. Fingers making small circles into her skull. She shrugged, “Have you ever considered that you don’t know me very well?”

Keeping him at a distance would be completely justified. Yet she could not help but feel a bit guilty, even though she had no reason to. It was true what her family said, she was too soft around the edges. Too bad they had failed in trying to harden her into a stone. She thought about it for a moment and gritted her teeth knowing they would not be pleased with her. Not for this, not for anything. To know she’d entered a pact with another monster, to make the same mistake again and again. Poster girl for the definition of insanity.

Ah, but still she would like to share his heartbeat again. To feel the rush of his breath, hot against the nape of her neck. The feeling of his teeth scraping at the barrier of her skin. It was silly, but she felt accepted when he held her against him. Not to mention the fire he had set in her loins still flickering as she looked at him. He’d left her unsatisfied and with a wanton longing.

Astarion began to speak, his lips parting, “Well, I for one am not going to get on my knees and— “

Forlorn’s voice cut off the sentence like a sharp blade, “I forgive you.”

Caught off guard, his lips were still parted, mid-word when her voice hit him. Again he needed a second to collect himself. His body relaxed, he'd been so tense a moment before. Eventually, he chimed, voice sickly sweet, “Splendid. See? All chummy again.”

Astarion’s eyes lingered for a while longer than necessary. His tongue was absentmindedly sitting in his cheek. Clearly something was eating at him. He was too still, too quiet. Usually, he spoke in a series of graceful hand gestures, but now he merely looked at her with an increasingly intense gaze. It seemed there were words in his throat he didn’t want to say. She watched him try to swallow them, try to bite them back, and fail.

“Tell me I didn’t mishear,” He eased into it. His head cocked to the side, a sly look coming over him. “You did enjoy yourself didn’t you?”

Her lips betrayed her, a smile blossoming on them. Were she in a more healthy state, maybe she would have been blushing. So quickly she’d melted under him again and held only applied such little pressure. No use denying it. Although she was hesitant to admit it the first time around, the second it seemed somewhat less threatening. Yes, she’d enjoyed herself. Most of all it’d left her wondering and wanting more. No doubt, exactly where he wanted her. He was drawing her further into his web as she let him, willing. Just like that, all was forgotten.

“Maybe.” She chuckled, meeting his gaze.

 _Maybe_ too much. A knowing grin appeared on his face. A dark, low hum came from his chest, “I thought so.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're switching point of view for this one and going from Astarion's pov. This means I finally got to do a deeper character study of him this chapter which was really great to write so that's exciting! I really hope you like reading it as much as I liked writing it.

Astarion was staring at her as she sat quietly on her bedroll, fixated on one of her dusty tomes. She would bring her finger slowly down the page then take a long journey across to carefully turn it over in her hands. Her wild hair spilled over her shoulders, across her face. Every now and again she would sigh, pulling herself from the reading to push the mess of curls from her eyes. Simple tasks, but he found himself watching with an odd level of intensity.He was at a loss.

She frustrated him in a way he didn’t know he could be. For a time he thought he despised her. Something about her behavior set him off. At first, it was a mild irritation, slowly it grew into something he was unable to ignore. When she would look up at him with that sweet, round cherubic face and say, “Yes.” It filled him with resentment. Constantly she was placating. Her words were full of sickly sweet niceties. Always trying to dig a little under his surface. Always searching his eyes for answers he didn’t want to give. Oh, her naive nature proved to be more a thorn in his side than perhaps even the worm in his brain. But for some reason, it seemed it drew him in. Intrigued for the very same reason that irritated him. He couldn’t deny liking the adoration in her large, round eyes when she looked at him. She was all too eager to please, fall into him. For a moment in the reflection of her eye, he could almost see himself as he wished to see himself: powerful.

But no, now she decided to invest in her silly books. She knew he was awake, they’d grown accustomed to the other’s schedule. Could she not feel the warmth of his gaze on her back?

She had this duel nature. He’d never seen someone wield weakness as a weapon. She did not need to do much, simply give him a knowing look now and again. Say something that betrayed her submission. Soon he was almost sure she was not a fool, only playing the part of one. If she was, she was certainly a skilled actress. She almost ceaselessly obeyed him, at every turn. Even at inopportune times, he had the satisfaction of knowing he could bring himself to her ear and whisper, “bend over.” And she would oblige him. Still, he didn’t understand what she stood to gain and that was what drove him to madness. What could she possibly want? What was she looking for when she went searching in his mind? When he fed on her, he could feel her wandering around in there, rummaging through. Of course, that was inevitable, comes with the territory. But he had hoped she wouldn’t go in with intent. All and all, feeding on her had chosen to be a misfire, it left him much more vulnerable than he expected.

He would tell himself he’d stop indulging her. That he could stop responding to her affection any moment. Insisted he was only looking at himself in her eyes, no more. Astarion kept telling himself this, but his actions betrayed him. He’d known early that he should have pulled away. The first time even had felt dangerous. And yet it became an awful addiction, night after night. Only for the blood, of course, only to feel a body that was warm for the first time in decades. Each morning would leave him confused and guilty, head swimming with old memories best forgotten. He would try to stave off his cravings, pushing away from her time and again. But by repressing it, he found he was staring even more salaciously at her wide hips, her oblong neck. Those images burned into his mind, until finally in moments of privacy he would have to relieve himself of it. Still not enough, not even close to enough.

It wouldn’t stop getting worse. At first, he could survive the itch. He didn’t want to be tied down, but the implication of her with someone else made him feel uneasy. Maybe he pushed her too far. She was popular in their little club. Something seethed in him when he found her wandering off to have a private moment with Shadowheart. With Gale, she would laugh. He found himself wondering what they spoke about. Wondered if they saw the same thing he did. Soon, it felt like she was just beginning to slip away. It only made the urge deepen.

Eventually, he simply could not take anymore. Perhaps he wouldn’t have asked at the party if he hadn’t had that piss poor wine, but he did. He tried not to show his desperation when she gave him a cold “I’ll think it over.” Again between them, he was not in control. He bit back his desperation, would have begged if she asked. Would behave childishly if she’d said no. He tried not to think about how he would have felt if he had.

Luckily for him, the answer was yes. She’d been just as obedient there, just as obliging. It was frustrating still. He could simply not comprehend why she was so compliant. So malleable under his pleasing hands. _Why do you let me touch you? Don’t you have a spine? Fight back._ For a moment he was finally able to alleviate himself being able to watch himself disappear into those wide hips he’d fantasized about. Even better that they wantonly pushed back against him, happy to have him inside them. He hadn’t exalted her until then, perhaps even purposefully so, but finally, in throws, he would offer sweet murmurs. For the first time afterward, he felt nearly relieved, if only for a moment.

Looking at her in the morning on the bed with the rising, orange sun caressing her face, he swam in guilt so much worse than he’d experienced before. He felt horrible about having ever touched her at all. Sick with himself, he attempted to sulk away, but when she stirred went he couldn’t ignore her beckoning. And he talked about his scars, stoney and shy in her arms. Too scared to really let her know him any farther.

Once again he told himself it would be the last time, that slowly he’d remove himself. But every night she and he would be the last one awake. Forlorn kept odd hours. Slept little and would awaken after a few hours with a start and wide eyed. He would never ask why nor acknowledge that he saw it. She would lay on her bedroll for long hours before drifting away. During that time someone would always break and wander over to the other. They would entangle themselves into each other again. It became routine, every few nights to now practically nightly. He felt some solace between her lilac thighs, praying at the altar of her neck, where he drank sacramental wine.

Now the craving was worse than it’d ever been. She could have him at her beck and call, but still, she plays the nymph. But he’d hid that from her so well, she probably didn’t know it.

Finally, stubbornly, he said, “What are you reading?”

She looked over her shoulder, expectantly. She’d been waiting for him to say it, wanted him to break the silence first, just as he did.

“Nothing you’d be interested in.” She shrugged, before returning to her work.

“You know,” He began, making his way to her, directing himself just too close to be ignored. His hand reached to carefully pry the tome from her hand. Forlorn’s fingers offered little resistance. “It’s getting awfully late. You should spend your time on _more important things_.”

She nearly laughed, a small exhale left her nostrils, “And what could possibly be that important?” A sly smile spread across her face.

“Hm, I’ll give you a clue.”

Her fingers tightened around the book as she pulled it back to her, looking as if she were about to argue, before relinquishing it to him. Already he wanted to descend upon her, but instead slowly crept to her level. He pressed his cold lips to her face, something much more chaste than what he truly desired. She looked back at him with her large purple eyes, blinking for a few moments before responding in a series of brushes and pecks across his skin.

“Isn’t this much more interesting, darling?” He cooed into her ear, carefully allowing sharp teeth to graze over the earlobe. She didn’t reply, simply mewed, shuddered, and clung to him. He would take it as a yes. His lips made a trail to her neck where he looked at it. The lilac skin was still soiled with his teeth marks. He ran a thumb over them the nail tracing behind, she flinched, chest rising in a shallow breath, before instinctually turning her head to the side. Testing the skin, he pressed on it lightly, feeling her pulse beating against his thumb. Forlorn responded, a barely audible whine of pain. She hadn’t yet healed.

He could push into it if he wanted too and he knew she would let him. The scent of her was already in his flared nostrils, floral and sweet. How he wanted to drag his tongue down the side for _just a taste_ , but he could control himself.

“No,” He sighed. “you’re not ready.”

Again another sound of complaint. Straining her neck more so to tempt him, she exposed to him the skin beneath which her blood pumped through her jugular. He could almost hear the sound of her raging pulse in his ears. And it was tempting. He thought on it again, remembering the sweet flavor of it on his lips like deep, warm spiced liquor on his tongue. Still, he stayed himself.

“You’ll be weak,” He asserted. “You won’t change my mind.”

Against him, he felt her chest deflate. She was waiting for instruction, turning back to look at him with eager eyes. Under his touch she tensed and fidgeted, frustration growing. For a moment he pulled back to look at her unsure of himself. Unsure of why he’d come and why he wanted so badly to stay. Why was she always encouraging him? Egging him on even in such a state.

“You need to learn to pace yourself.” He spoke, without thinking.

Her adoring gaze became an icy glare. Suddenly she pushed away from him.

_“I know how to pace myself.”_ She snapped, her face now tight with bitterness. She recoiled like a trapped animal, frightened and caged. It seemed she was angry at him for laying bare her performance and for a brief second dropped the act. Now he could see her as she was; feral and afraid, just like himself beneath his own flimsy mask. She motioned to push him away but was met not with resistance, but a warm touch.

“Oh, come now don’t make such a fuss. I’m only trying to help.” He began, a pair of lips brushing against her exposed jaw and neck to soothe. The muscle under them were strained with anger, but as he went on it flinched and began to loosen. As if it had never been there the anger dissipated.

“That’s better. Now, lay down, on your back.” Might as well flex that ability if he had it.

Without question she obeyed him, assuming position on the bedroll. Again it turned his stomach to see her bend to him, but what a pretty sight to see. He parted her lets slow to see the outline of slightly damp undergarments beneath her gown. Astarion extended a claw to trace the fold of her slit through the fabric, hardly applying pressure. Impatiently her hips shifted against the digit.

“Greedy.” He murmured playfully. He lifted the thin cotton gown to her hips. Exposing her legs to the night air. The texture of her skin changed as goosebumps rose in response to the new cold and his caresses.He watched her press against what little friction he offered. He watched her writhe beneath him.

And then he felt a sickly turn in his stomach, a growing knot as a thousand unseemly memories flooded his senses. A thousand horrific images rushed past, visions of the endless nights at Cazedor’s side. They were invading his mind just as the tadpole. The past lingered heavy in the air as if it were a ghost. Astarion did no more than flinch when the memories came upon him, usually, he did less. He could take her now. Force his way through the discomfort, grin and bare it. But he simply didn’t have the strength. Forlorn looked up at him in confusion again as his hand retreated.

“Did I do something wrong?” She asked, sitting upwards to meet his level.

She’d already turned it inwards on herself, ready to wear blame like a gown. That was only a twist of the knife.

“Not you, the moment was simply…” He began before his voice faded away. There was no way to justify it without revealing himself. Since, mercifully, she had not asked, he would not explain further. Shame boiled up in his chest, but he refused to let it show. That he could not so much as please her or himself, that it was tainted by the blight of an old wound.

“No.” He assured, trying again, this time his voice steadier. “What’s wrong? — Is my company not enough?”

She blinked, once, twice, and then stared at him with blank eyes, “I-It’s enough. Just—“ She began to speak, but half way through the sentence her mouth opened with no sound. “What do you want to do?”

Astarion thought for a moment, realizing that he didn’t have much of an answer. He only knew he wanted to be by her side. He pushed his lips against hers pulling her closer to him.

“Can’t I just enjoy your presence?” He asked.

Another knowing glance, this time almost smug, as if she felt she’d claimed some great victory. She leaned back on her arms and said, “I thought you weren’t the affectionate type.”

Until then, he had not been or perhaps had not let himself be.

“My dear, you’ll find I’m full of surprises.”

He lay beside her, at first she encompassed him with touches, a series of kisses and caresses with warm hands, before settling upon his chest. He leaned into that human warmth, letting it overcome his vampiric cold for but a moment. Her arms wrapped around him gently as if he were made of glass. It would not do, he needed more of this comfort she offered.

“Tighter.” He requested.

She responded in kind, tightening her grip around him. There it was. He was safe, adored in her arms. Finally, he was at ease and relaxed fully into her. Astarion hid his face in the curls at the nape of her neck as his hands traced up and down her spine. A pleased sigh left his lips, “Better.”

Together they laid like that, losing track of time. Eventually, Forlorn’s breath evened out to a slow ebbing pace. Evidently, she’d fallen asleep on his chest. Upon realizing this, Astarion thought to move, leave her there, but even in her sleep, she clutched him tightly just as he had asked. He could move, he should, but he had no desire to. No, he would wait there till morning, slip away just as the sun rose so nobody else would see. He would rest here as long as he could, but forever would be preferable.


End file.
